


Anabrasmos

by BrieflyDel (newredshoes)



Category: Marvel 1602, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Greece, Highwaymen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-20
Updated: 2003-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/BrieflyDel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing evening from issue #1. The ground shakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anabrasmos

The Old Man understands time and stasis. He knows how many suns have beat down on the back of his neck; he notes how the Thracian hills roll as endless as the seas. When the world moves at donkey’s pace, very little distinguishes any one hour from the next. The days pass as seamlessly as nations and borders, bearing the trio without effort, as waves do. The dirt of ten different kingdoms hangs upon them, clinging like begging lepers. Each speck of dust is one more pilgrim to Trieste.

This is not stillness: breezes play the tallgrasses; insects and birds squabble in the fields. The hooves of the donkey clop patiently against the road; the cargo in the back jostles with its fellows. If the servant makes any noise, the chorus of the countryside swallows it. The Old Man thinks on this as the wheels roll ever westward. He remembers the moments in his life that stopped, and they are mercifully few.

They pass through the meadowlands, meeting only a young shepherd cursing at some huddling sheep, and continue into a ravine. Behind them, the earth lies like snowdrifts, and now the difficult passage begins. The path through the cliffs winds and narrows erratically, and often the servant must hop off the cart and heave on the donkey’s bridle in a tug-o’-war of wills. Shadows pool at the feet of the ledges, and rise to fill the canyon as the sun beds itself in the horizon. Colors shift and become stranger, brighter, and the few wisps of cloud look unnatural against the sweep of blue overhead.

The ground shakes. Even the Old Man is startled, for there was no warning, no clattering of pebbles or fleeing of beasts. The donkey brays, and tries backing away; he twists in his reins and bumps against the Old Man’s feet. The servant grabs the animal’s neck and steadies him as best he can. The earth ripples, and an inhuman roar rebounds off the walls of the ravine, as though the very rocks are giving voice to their pains. Debris tumbles from above, and the stone at their feet yawns. When the tremor ceases, a chasm has opened up behind them and rubble buries their retreat. The sides are too steep to scale, especially with all they carry.

An hour passes. The Old Man considers unloading all their cargo and disassembling the cart, to bring it in pieces over the rocks, but the sun has drifted beneath the hills and the world is more dark now than light. (And the great burden they bear is too heavy for six men -- two even in their prime could not hope to budge it.) Silently, the servant begins to build a fire. Another hour passes, and the flames grope toward the stars. The Old Man thinks on movement, and freedom, and on the dread he holds in the hollows of his heart. High above, the wind runs its fingers through the grass.

“Help! Hello? Help! Hello, you must help us!“ The thump of pounding footsteps ricochets all around them. The lone voice persists. “Help! Do you understand what I’m saying? _Bana yard ïm c ï olabilir misiniz?”_ The Old Man furrows his brow and stands up.

“Who calls?” He responds in Greek. From the darkness, a figure emerges: he is young, barely bearded, and wears a shepherd’s kaftan to his knees. His eyes flash in the firelight, sparking with distress, but he shields them and hangs back.

“You are not Turks?”

The Old Man spreads his arms. “We hold allegiance to neither Seljuks nor Ottomans.”

The stranger takes a pace closer; the glow reveals a slight boy, with proud shoulders and fair hair. “My friend, he is gravely ill -- I do not know what I can do for him. Can you help me?”

“Where is he?”

The youth points into the night. “Over there, resting. I can bring him over -- we only crave the use of your fire.”

The servant hangs back, observing. The Old Man casts a glance at him for approval; he gives it, and slinks back to sit again on the cart. “You are safe with us,” the Old Man assures. The lad flashes a grateful smile, and dashes back for his companion. The Old Man settles into his seat in the dust and waits, planning tonight’s conversation.

_What are you doing with all that?_

_We are traders, headed for the Italian ports. Items from the Holy Land bring a great price for poor merchants such as we._

_How wonderful! What sort of things do you trade?_

_Relics, fineries, carvings, remembrances -- oh, but the pots and pans are our own. Though should you offer the right price..._ And then he will wink, and they will laugh, if they are polite and absorb the poor jokes of an aged and doddering man.

Their footsteps are slower and clumsier upon returning. The companion, a few years younger by the look of his wan face, struggles to keep himself upright. His hair is very dark, his skin the clear olive prized in Danaan times. His tunic is more ragged, and smells overpoweringly of sheep. Without acknowledging his hosts, he drops to the ground and sits slumped before the fire, staring miserably at the ground.

The Old Man leans forward. “Is there anything we might share with you? A bit of bread, some water perhaps?”

The older boy kneels by the other, pushing the locks behind his ears and cradling the small of his back for support. He attends to the youth with the care of a fretful brother. “We’ll be fine, he just needs to sit for--”

He moans. “Water.” He scowls weakly at the flame. “I can decide what I need for myself, Iohannes.”

Iohannes scoffs. “Stubborn,” he mutters, biting back a smirk.

“Bigheaded idiot,” the boy shoots back, and arches away from his palm.

The Old Man twists his hands about his staff and smiles. “Iohannes? A good name.” His gaze shifts. “What are you called?”

The dark youth straightens and even from that distance looks him in the eye. “I am Dominic Petros,” he answers, with all the shame of Achilles. “Who are you?”

“Travelers bound for Venice,” he says simply, and passes him the water. Iohannes stares into the fire, with the expression of a child watching for shapes in the clouds. No one speaks, and the silence toys with awkwardness and exhaustion.

The heat distorts the Old Man’s vision, and Iohannes seems to squirm. “So, do you work for anyone?”

“We employ ourselves as we see fit.”

The boy runs his fingertips along the palm of one hand. “I was just asking because you look like men of the Church. The robes, they...” He trails off, and peers into the fire again. Dominic brings his knees to his chest and glances at him. Under his breath, Iohannes murmurs, “Are you feeling better?” Dominic nods, and cracks his neck. The silence continues to unfurl.

“So you are selling all that?” the Greek asks bluntly, indicating the cart.

“Some of it,” the Old Man replies, keeping his own misgivings about the whole affair to himself.

He eyes the cargo like a jaded suq buyer. “What manner of things are they?”

“Reliquaries, mainly. A few bags of spice. Six carpets woven within sight of the walls of Jerusalem.”

Dominic seems disappointed. “Why do you bother? Those aren’t very exciting.”

The Old Man actually chuckles; the boy’s disdain is neither malicious nor offensive. “What would you prefer?”

“Don’t you have any magic monkey paws or divining objects stolen from the ruins of Delphi? No spearheads pulled from the mud of Troy or bits from the lid of Pandora’s box?”

Iohannes chuckles into a fist. “You must forgive my friend -- he was born two thousand years after his true peers.”

“He speaks truth, I have no interest in the world of the Christians.” He is unapologetic and free of insolence. “Long ago, a man gave me an ikon of Homer, made specially for me, because I alone for miles around know all his works and all his songs.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Of course.” Dominic looks affronted. “That is not a treasure one gives up.”

“Well spoken.” The Old Man watches as tendrils of fire snake through the tinder and swirl in the dust. Iohannes has furrowed his brow and stares hard into the glare. “Friend?” he inquires, “are you ill as well?”

The youth breaks eye contact with the flame. “No, I am in good spirits.” He settles back on his elbows, his attitude meant to convey weary repose. Dominic curls onto his side and dozes. The Old Man leans against his staff, his thoughts remaining private. The hours roll by like tides.

Purple begins seeping into the sky, which flushes in the presence of the rosy-fingered dawn. The Old Man has not moved from his seat, but the boys have huddled together, a litter of two. The fire is now a heap of embers, every so often expelling a limp wisp of smoke. Dominic stirs, and jostles Iohannes awake. The elder youth sits up and digs into his eyes with his knuckles, swallowing a yawn. A sotto voce conversation occurs. The pair share the skin of water, passing it between them until each is alert. They turn to steal a glance at the Old Man, but he seems unresponsive. Iohannes stands up, and helps Dominic to his feet. Cautiously, Iohannes stretches forth one hand.

The flames leap upward eagerly as any hound, climbing above a tall man’s height. Iohannes smiles, his teeth glinting. A great bird flares in the center and rises overhead, arching and twisting. He lifts his other arm and spreads his fingers; a wall of fire springs up between the Old Man and his cart. Dominic rolls his shoulders and steps toward the cargo.

The servant is raptor-quick: they had forgotten he still sat faithfully in the back. The copper pan cuts through the air with the precision of a discus, and collides heavily with the youth’s chest. Dominic falls to the ground with a cry; the earth bucks and ripples beneath him, as though the impact were twenty times the force of a boy.

“Call them back,” the Old Man orders levelly. When he had risen to his full height, none could say, but he towers now with no trace of impotence. His voice rings in their ears and rumbles in the pits of their stomachs. Iohannes hesitates, panic flickering in his face: the flames falter and waver, formless. The servant balances a heftier vessel, the threat mute but deathly clear. Dominic lies wheezing in the dirt nearby.

The flames shrivel, and curl low in defeat. The servant does not set down the second pan. The Old Man interrupts the standoff. “Now is the time you share yourselves with us.” Calm as it sounds, this is a statement of fact. “I am ever curious for new stories, and yours has an intriguing bent. A Venetian calls himself Iohannes and hides among the fold in far-off Thrace. He passes his days robbing the road to Italy with a shepherd boy literate in the works of the ancients. One cannot help but wonder.”

The boy chokes, and does not know what to do with his hands. He sways on his feet. “How did you know?”

“Because the speech of men betrays far more than their thoughts or concealments. Your accent is not unknown to me.”

He glances fearfully at Dominic, who has rolled onto his stomach and kneads the earth with his fingers. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his shoulders quiver beneath the weight of a quick decision. “You divine correctly,” he at last concedes; “I am no Greek. My name is Gian [Sant’Illidio](http://users.erols.com/saintpat/ss/0707.htm#ally), born in [the Dorsoduro](http://www.mykreeve.net/venezia/dorsoduro/) nineteen Aprils past. When I learned I was witchbreed, I fled to the Holy Church and was safe for a time.” He pauses. “May I sit?” The Old Man nods assent. He lowers himself onto the ground and takes a steadying breath. His eyes dart continually to Dominic, but he dares not move toward him.

“If any body knows more of public secrets than the Church, I am both awed and frightened of it. Because I could not control them, my talents came to the attention of other forces within that institution, wheels that move separate from the greater motions of Rome. I was called to meet a man whose title I dare not speak, who trained me and taught me in all manner of ways. He told me of the threat that certain people posed to the good of the wider world, of strange men whom he had hunted, captured, and killed. One in particular seized my imagination -- a monster in Orthodox lands that should have died with the pagan gods. In him was the power to level cities, to bring down mountains and split the earth in twain. My master said if I truly loved him, I would prove myself and undo this divine mistake. What eager son could say no?

“A year ago I came to Greece, and searched four months before I found this creature. He was recently orphaned, until then living with a flock of sheep and a half-mad uncle. Do you understand me? A _boy,_ all of fifteen. Who would fear this slip of a man? I tried so hard to tell myself how easy it would be, that the In--” He licks dry lips with a sawdust tongue. “That my master had underestimated me, and I would have to make him proud. But I had not counted on the beast being human. Dominic stopped me in my tracks.” Some memory in the corner of his vision draws his gaze to the ground. “The first words he spoke to me -- I’ll never forget that moment. ‘Who among mortal men--’”

“‘Who among mortal men are you, good friend?’” Dominic’s voice strains for timbre; he has pulled himself onto his knees, and is still half-bent toward the earth, clutching his stomach. “‘Since never before have I seen you in the fighting where men win glory, yet now you have come striding far out in front of all others in your great heart, who have dared stand up to my spear far-shadowing.’”

“‘Yet unhappy are those whose sons match warcraft against me,’” Gian finishes. “That is a passage from the _Iliad,_ when the distant cousins Glaukos and Diomedes meet on the battleplain and exchange vows of friendships.”

Dominic tries interjecting. “It was just the part I was at that day--”

Gian waves one hand. “You continue saying that, and yet here we are companion highwaymen.” He turns back to the Old Man. “I have known many vile men in my short time, and few decent. He is neither -- he is who he is, and begs neither permission nor forgiveness. When he says he has no patience for the modern world... he does not mean quite that. Dominic trusts himself to take care of himself, and he trusts he was made in the best manner fit for that.”

“I am still listening, you know,” Dominic interrupts, embarrassment bubbling through the shortness. He rearranges himself and crouches on his heels.

“You listen because you love hearing your praises,” Gian snorts.

“And you sing them because you like the way I roast lambs,” he smirks.

The elder rolls his eyes. “Oh ye of little faith--”

“So why prey upon this road?” the Old Man presses. Gian laughs.

“I should think that was obvious... I have left the West, and I have left the Church, with no news of my whereabouts or accomplishments.” His face darkens. “My master invested much in me, and he does not like losing gold dust through his fingers.”

“But are you not afraid of gaining fame in these parts?”

The edges of Gian’s hair flash copper with the first streaks of sunlight. He glances and Dominic and says no more, and the Old Man can tell his question will only go half-answered.

The Greek is not so easily sated. “And what of you? You are not like the others we have dealt with.”

And here is the part the Old Man was dreading. His knuckles drain of color. “How so?”

“You bring far too little to make a trip from Jerusalem profitable, even in Venice. You should have sold your wares in Istanbul if you were out to earn money. What are you doing on the road to Italy?”

“I will not tell you that. I am fulfilling a duty -- you need know nothing more.”

Dominic frowns. “A duty to who?” Gian tries to hush him, but is rebutted.

“To a force which compels me.” The Old Man rests against his staff, taking stock of their two interlopers. “And in the end... what do you serve?”

“We serve no one,” Dominic states brusquely. “We serve ourselves.”

“Do you fear no higher power?”

Gian makes sure speaks first, very deliberately. “I have seen the face of God and witnessed the work of deities. It is in him -- an Olympian if ever one walked the earth. I am tired of being told what is power and what is truth. I am a thinking creature: it insults my intelligence to let a plan a continent distant from me rule my life and my actions.” He leans forward and lifts one hand to the fire: a length of flame crosses the empty space and settles in his palm. It winds between his fingers, lithe as a serpent and just as tame. “I am tired of following. We will make our own way.”

Pebbles crunch behind them; Dominic has risen and approaches the Old Man. He stops a few feet away, and surveys the rubble heaped upon the road. “You are in a hurry?” He does not look away.

The Old Man chooses his words with great care. “We have agreed to meet another in four days’ time.”

Dominic nods. “And the road is long to the Italian ports.”

The sun is half-risen over the Thracian hills, illuminating the campsite before only lit by coals. Dominic’s shoulders visibly rise and fall, and he braces himself. He plants his feet, lifts both arms, and reaches for the west. The ground shakes. The donkey shrieks, and struggles beneath the servant’s iron hold. The Old Man has heard of mystics who are beset by a demon spirit and convulse until by the force within they are destroyed. Just so, before his eyes the boulders vibrate, and then quaver, and then quake as though each stone suffers an unendurable fit. The gnashing of Dominic’s teeth rises above the clamor, giving way to a roar ripped from the belly of a man.

It ends just as suddenly as it started. The sun catches every speck and mote in the air, which shine and sparkle in the silence. Dominic falls to his knees amidst a haze of settling dust. Gian scrambles upright and catches him before he topples. He offers no resistance, and allows himself to be helped to his feet. “You’d better go,” he pushes past gritted teeth.

The Old Man climbs atop the riding board and takes the reins in his hands. With the help of the servant, he urges the donkey forward until the wheels are level with the two boys. “I am concerned about the passage that your friend stakes so much of himself on. Diomedes tricks Glaukos, and leaves the field having traded his bronze armor for the Trojan gold. Is this not treachery?”

Dominic offers a slim smile. “The gold armor is an article of worth and faith -- Glaukos honors Diomedes with the gift. And think it through -- would you go into battle with gold plating? Very pretty, but awfully soft. Diomedes is saving his life: they are friends, after all.”

The wheels leave deep grooves in the new layer of dust, ash-fine and thick as sand. As the trio heave their burden away from the rising sun, the Old Man meditates on time and stasis. He wonders at darkness, and how each hour looks the same at night, if they exist separately at all. He thinks on movement, and light, and on bonds and duty. The cargo groans in the back of the cart, but this is only slightly audible over the noise of the waking world. The pilgrims voyage on; Trieste draws ever nearer.


End file.
